“My wife has a hired girl. What’s that got to do with it?”
“Do you have trouble in keeping her?”
“We have trouble in keeping them. It’s one after another. They all get the itch for the mills or the stores.”
“Good! Then you’ll understand me,” said I, and I told him the whole story, going on to say:
“When we were roused by this burglar, and I realized that Minerva would throw up her position if she was unduly startled, I resolved to throw myself on the burglar’s mercy, and ask him to pose as my friend, so as to deceive Minerva. It worked all right, or would have worked all right if you hadn’t come here to upset her worse than ever. She’s probably packing her trunk, now—”
“By Godfrey, I’m sorry,” said the constable, who seemed a very decent sort of fellow, now that I knew him better.
“You may well be sorry,” said I, with considerably more spirit than I had yet shown. “Of course, I understand that you are doing your duty, but it’s always best to come to headquarters in an affair of this kind. You got only a garbled version from Minerva. I have given you the facts. The burglar evidently left that cup by mistake, and the Fayerweathers are welcome to it. I’m sure I never want to see it again. It would be a perpetual reminder of our loss of Minerva.”
The constable rose. “It’s a durned shame,” said he, “but of course I didn’t know anything about you. So then you don’t know where the burglar went after he left here?”
I hesitated. It did not seem honourable to tell even the little I knew about the man who had been my guest.
“He went out the front door,” said I, “but where he is now I haven’t the shadow of a suspicion.”